Soiled
by KarasBroken
Summary: When Kennedy comes back from sea, he seeks solace in Drury Lane. Pre-"Even Chance".


_A/N: Taking place after "Leave a Mark" but before Archie and Horatio meet on the _Justinian_._

* * *

As a boy, brought along to chaperon while his brothers chased whores, he had loved the theater. It was colorful, lively, and loud, full of laughter and happy people. No one minded if he clapped or bounced, or lost himself in the pit. Or snuck backstage to see the ladies and the gentleman changing into pirates or kings or moors or witches. Or simply back into girls and boys.

After was almost his favorite time. When the words were still ringing in his ears like music, but the actors were scratching and belching and scrubbing off their faces. It gave him confidence that magic could come from anywhere, even an old man who smelled bad or a skinny girl that peeled off her bosom and tweaked his nose. Life was never only what it seemed, in a theater.

He wondered, later, why it took him so long to find his way there again.

* * *

He hated baths.

He hated many things about being home, but bathing was the most peculiar.

It was not, precisely, that he did not want to be clean. Just that he knew he couldn't be, and to try was to be naked. He attempted it once, with the lights out. Not a single candle, and a chair wedged in the handle of every door, but it was too dark, and when he woke there was blood in the water, blood and worse, and a servant calling for him, pounding to wake the house. He wasn't clean, and never would be.

He used the wash basin after that, and when it could not be avoided, bathed with every taper lit, in his nightshirt. No doubt it caused a scandal in the laundry, but the servants already talked, and there was no help for it.

In time, he could make himself believe that nothing would happen and it was easier. For a moment he could duck his head under the surface, could bear the feel of water touching everywhere. Could feel the slickness of the soap on his fingers. He would be fine.

But he always dressed and undressed alone. Every shade drawn, and quickly, never glancing down. He did not want to look at himself, or have others look at him either.

Still, women turned to stare at him in the streets. Men too. He ate until his clothes didn't show what years in the rigging had given him. Until his mother sighed and had the tailor let out all his waistcoats. Until he could almost see a round-faced child in the mirror again, when he dared to look. Now, no one should give him a second glance, just another rich man's son, plump and unremarkable.

They should not be able to see it, but somehow they could.

* * *

They were boys. He kept trying to remember that, when they jostled his elbow as he copied, or stole the tart off his tray at dinner. Sometimes he could manage it, could close his eyes and hear a crowd of young gentlemen, not knowing any better. Then he could grin, and laugh, and turn their tricks back on them. Forgive them. Other days, he had less patience.

"This is not the dockyard at Portsmouth, Mr. Kennedy. We do not allow our students to brawl like common tars."

"He touched my queue, sir." He had been deep in thought and the boy pulling his hair had startled him. He hadn't meant to hurt the lad, hadn't known where he was for a long awful minute, until the shouts penetrated the fog and he realized someone was trying to stop him. No one had tried to stop _him_.

They caned him there in the study hall, hands gripping the edge of the table. The man didn't put any back into it, though. Had hesitated even, after he'd taken down his pants to show them all the evidence of his experience. The bosun's mate of _The Perseverence_ could have given the teacher a few lessons.

After, he was sent to the headmaster's study, but had a fit on the rug there before the clerk and dean. He begged them not to tell his father and they did not. They had seen it too, and didn't want to be involved. Didn't want him to touch them.

Most of the teachers ignored him from that point forward, left him to read what he liked, to study or not. They did not call on him after lecture, or ask him questions. The boys had fewer reservations.

"We heard you took a flogging on that ship of yours, Kennedy." _Took worse than that.  
_  
"Was it the cat?" _Well, it wasn't a kitten._

"Let us see your scars, Kennedy!" _God no. Not for the world._

"Weren't you in a war, in India?" _Just a battle._

"How many men have you killed, Kennedy?" _Not enough._

It was safer to walk the other way when he came to the school gates. Latin and Greek had seemed pointless enough aboard ship, with a seaman's lexicon to learn and master. Adrift on shore, fallen far behind his peers, there seemed even less reason to exert himself.

He was only in school for something to do during the day, so his father would not have to remember him. He was only there until he was better, and could be found another post and sent out to sea. School did not make him feel better, so he slipped away.

Slipped down to St. Peters, where he might creep in to sit on the pews for a time, and wonder about the mercy of God. Or to Parliament Stairs, to the water, to ponder the mercy of government, that sent children to war and didn't protect them. _For God and King, indeed_.

From there it was easier to take to the winding streets than return to books and stares and whispers.

He would give himself to the Thames, walking along the embankment, watching the ships and ferries, cutters and skips. The stink of it was comforting, and he didn't mind mud on his boots. He could lose a morning to fishermen and flower girls, and the dank muddy gray of the water. Then one day he kept going, down the long wash of the Strand, and fetched up, just another bit of flotsam, at Drury Lane.

* * *

It was the wrong hour for a performance, but he didn't want to see a play. He wanted the players, wanted their secret to not being what they seemed. He poked his head into the first playhouse he came to. They would have driven him off, but he had enough pennies, that first day, for a handful of pies. Actors were always hungry and they let him stay. Let him watch while they turned words into music.

The second time, he clambered up into the rafters for them, to fix a broken pulley. The third, they didn't say anything when he slipped in late, after Latin. Just gave him ropes to mend, and then a paint brush to finish up the newest bit of scenery. So ran his days.

Classes in the morning, if he could bear it, or the water and the docks. Actors did not rise with the dawn, and there was no point in coming sooner. But then, to work, to paint or build, or sew, or help with lines. There was always something, and the skills of the ship were handy enough on the boards as well.

One afternoon, a runner came for him, to scale the ropes and untangle a knot in the neighboring theater's set loft. It was tricky work. He didn't make it home on time that night, and though his father glowered, he couldn't remember being happier.

What he was, what he had been, didn't matter to the troupe. No one questioned. Certainly, no one stared. They didn't need to look at _him_, with so many mirrors around.

* * *

His family noticed that he spent most nights out at the theaters, but they didn't know about his days. The word came that cousin David, the Earl, was dying, and that was enough to occupy their attention.

He probably amused the more regular inhabitants of Drury Lane, their blue-blooded, blue-coated hanger on.

They taught him how to drop his H's or roll his R's like a Spaniard. How to make a stage fire or a stage fight. How to be heard at the back of the theater and to draw on a scowl. The best way to stuff a corset and the quickest way to get a girl out of one. After several awkward attempts, he even managed to find an actress to practice on.

Around the men he was shyer. There was an openness in the theater that shocked him, after cable tiers and locked doors, and Article 29. One of the young leads, a handsome, sable-headed man he admired greatly, finally talked him into playing opposite at a rehearsal.

Yet when the time came for the kiss, the world went gray. Then the troupe were all standing around him, looking scared. They put him on a sofa in the green room. As soon as he could he crept away and didn't come back for a week.

When he did, it was not what he expected. The actor he offended demanded the right to prove that it was not poor technique that caused his fit. Prove by kissing before them all several other, entirely willing boys-and a couple girls who jumped the queue.

After that bit of raillery, it was oddly simple to explain how he had hit his head, and who had done it, and why. They didn't have to say how many of them had experienced something similar. Acting was not a life for innocents. The mishap was never later mentioned. But no one asked him to play the girl again, though his actor friend made a quiet offer that he never accepted.

* * *

He stayed behind with his younger siblings, while most of his family went north to attend the funeral. School term had not ended, and besides, he was not needed.

Within a fortnight, Kenneth Alexander made his debut on the London stage, in "Twelfth Night". He only had four lines, but the moment he stepped out onto the boards, he felt a terror like nothing since the beat to quarters at Tellicherry. Everyone was looking at _him_. Everyone could _see_ him. His heart pounded in his chest, and he waited for the gray to come and ruin this too. To take it all away.

But then the dark-haired Duke winked at him, where the audience could not see. And it was all right. Everyone was looking, but no one could see _it_. Not here, under paint and lights, and costumes, and role. He was just Curio, attendant on the Duke.

"Will you go hunt, my lord?"

"What, Curio?" Brown eyes held him, secure as an embrace.

"The hart."

* * *

After, he lingered in face-white while Countess and ladies, the knights and the servants, were turning back, one by one, into women and men, giddy and profane, half-naked and mostly-drunk.

Orsino came lurching by with smudged kohl eyes and a drained bottle. The latter was offered, and he took it, tried it, and found it, indeed, quite empty. So the Duke offered a kiss instead, before he could quite refuse.

Soft dry lips and the damp taste of wine, a strange communion. It asked nothing, took nothing. It was enough, and then it was over, and the man was leaving, with a quiet, proud, "Well done, Kenny."

He waited for the fog. Sat in front of the mirror waiting again for the world to dissolve, but it didn't. He was fine. The press of painted mouth on mouth had become a talisman. Even a kiss was not what it appeared, in the theater.

The bowl of water, for example, was a threat, waiting to wash away his protection. He left it there and went to find Orsino.

It seems he did not want to be clean, after all.

* * *

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